


Broken Vow

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), The Chronicles of Riddick (2004), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Seduction, Attempted Sexual Assault, BDSM, Multi, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: Gradually becoming accustomed to life among the Necromonger fleet, Jim settles into a life of ease as Vaako's lover - despite his status as the commander's bed slave. He eventually catches the admiring eye of the Lord Marshal. When Vaako refuses his demand to relinquish Jim, Zhylaw turns to more extreme measures to have his way - and the spurned Dame Vaako, with her meddling servants, is only too glad to assist.





	Broken Vow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [what remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129195) by [neroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh). 



Jim recognizes the prisoner as a Kalar, one of the warrior species from Rigel VII. Not human, and therefore unworthy of conversion, but ferocious and savage enough to offer good sport.

This one is no different from others of his kind; he’s remained on his feet, panting and grunting, but determined, for nearly half of an hour.

Heaving for breath, the alien lashes out again with a burly arm, the ragged chains of his outdated battle flail swinging in a wide arc, missing his opponent’s head by a fraction of an inch.

Another gasp ripples through the audience while, up in the slaves’ gallery, Jim feels his heart leap into his throat.

Vaako rises slowly from his defensive crouch, sweat beading across pale skin, and inches his way around the circumference of the arena. Forcing himself to breathe, Jim summons up his old combat training and hastily examines the circumstances. The basic intent is clear – the Kalar is towering and rugged, but the weight of natural muscle makes him sluggish. A direct attack would be futile, but Vaako focuses his aim to quick strikes at the side and -

Spittle foaming at the edges of his yellowed fangs, the creature suddenly lunges to the left, the spikes of his hanging maces smashing to the polished floor. Vaako draws out from the feint and strikes, his teeth bared as sapphire blue blood spurts from the wound in the Kalar’s gut, newly hacked by the curved edge of a necro pollaxe.

Snarling, Vaako rams the blade deeper with a wet grinding of torn flesh, gradually easing himself closer towards the alien, who now lies sprawled across the floor, whining like a hurt puppy.

By the time he’s standing astride his victim, the court is silent, apparently waiting rapt for the final thrill of the execution. Jim’s body quavers with needless relief – his master is no novice to battle - even as his insides roil at the knowledge of what is to follow…

As quickly as the silence came, it is gone. The Lord Marshal raises a gloved finger and triumphant roaring tears through the crowd. The word now given, Vaako rips the axe free of the Kalar’s heaving body and, in an overhead stab, buries it with an earsplitting crack through the alien’s sternum.

The death-scream has barely faded before Vaako’s cry of triumph rises above the chaotic noise, and despite the blood, the brutality, the needless torture of a creature intent solely on survival, Jim feels his skin heat with helpless pride in his lover...

 

Dry-skinned fingers pinch at Jim’s exposed collarbone, and he tries not to impulsively voice his irritation as Goneril leans across the bench, the pendants of her handmaid’s collar jangling softly against her wrinkled throat.

“Get to the chambers –you ought not to be seen now!” she snaps, eyes narrowed at either side of her hawkish nose.

Biting back his automatic reply, Jim fights his way through the closely packed ranks of servants, back towards the corridor. There’s no sense in choosing a battle with Dame Vaako’s chief serving woman, not when both mistress and maid would gladly shove a serrated dagger down his throat – and besides, her scolding isn’t entirely misplaced. The wafer-thin veneer of religious sacrifice is Zhylaw’s only justification for his court’s bloodthirsty amusements, and it won’t do for the sight of Lord Vaako’s bed slave to sully his pious image, particularly in the wake of the day’s success.

 

But no matter. He’d be better off getting some rest anyway, before Vaako returns, drunk on success, and – Jim smirks – leaves him exhausted before the night has even begun.

 

The passageways twist and spiral like a labyrinth, and while Jim’s had ample time – four months exactly - to grow accustomed to the tomb-like surroundings of the flagship, the darkness and the endless parade of grim, stone-carved faces still make him uncomfortable.

Just as he makes the turn out of the slave corridor and into the palace-like belly of the vessel – reserved for the Lord Marshal’s elite - a familiar, dreaded hissing echoes somewhere behind him, and his bare feet slide to a halt on the gleaming tile.

Despite strict training in tolerance and control from a half-forgotten life, Jim has never been able to stomach the lensors; the remains of necro soldiers wounded beyond recovery, wired with Frankenstein freakishness into chunks of machinery that left them as nothing but part-human bloodhounds, all autonomy robbed for the rest of their so-called lives.

A bit nauseous at the recollection, Jim straightens his shoulders and turns, readying himself for the disquieting scrutiny of a skull-like face hidden behind a lensing mask –

“And what could have such an exquisite boy in such a hurry?” croons an oily, all-too familiar voice.

He’s only ever seen the Lord-Marshal from a distance, and then only briefly – the Holy-Half Dead would hardly rub shoulders with an unconverted slave. However, Vaako seems to admire the man, and if he has his master’s respect, that should be more than enough for Jim as well.

The emperor stalks towards him with a sweep of that ostentatious cloak, something out of another time, while his retinue – the Purifier, a few favored commanders and their wives, and one of those hissing, lizard-like cyborgs, it’s minder clutching the viewer connected to it’s back - whisper among themselves, a few eyeing him with barely concealed lust or distaste. Some discontented murmuring sweeps through the rest of the court, their procession from the main arena entrance apparently halted by the Lord-Marshal’s distraction, and many begin craning their necks to see what has caused the obstruction.

If Jim had his wits about him, he’d put away his pride. Play the supplicant, the thrall, and throw himself into a head-lowered bow at the man’s feet; but he knows that look, the way Zhylaw studies him with careful eyes, the tight line of his thin mouth… He’d seen it on men when he was a child, _has_ seen it, on Marcus, on Kh…

He freezes instead, veins choked with something icy that he refuses to call fear, tries to justify as anything, anything but…

A gauntleted finger catches him under the chin, lifting his face with surprising care.

Jim forces himself to look into those grey eyes directly, without flinching back, while his heart pounds hysterically against his ribs, begging him to run.

“I’d thought I knew every face aboard this ship…” the Lord-Marshal dwells quietly, before chucking him under the chin like a teasing uncle, and drawing back a few scant inches.

“ – yours isn’t one I’d forget.”

The nearest courtiers begin chuckling, and Jim feels a pink flush color his cheekbones.

“He’s uncollared – where’s his master?”

“Commander Vaako’s signet, my Lord.”

Metal-clad hands dig into his flesh as one of the guards grabs him around the chest and rips open the semi transparent fabric that both comprises his loose shirt and advertises his “function” to the entire armada. The pink skin of his left side is quickly exposed, along with the intricate tangle of black and red ink above his hipbone that forms the head of a viciously fanged beast.

Panic finally wins over, and Jim begins to struggle in earnest. Perhaps it’s foolish, but the gaze of so many strangers fixed on that spot is still uncomfortable – both for the knowledge of what it hides, and what he wants it to represent, for himself and the man who’s eyes he intended it for.

The Lord-Marshal waves off the guards with an imperious gesture, before an odd half smile curls across his narrow face.

“I might have known; beauty _and_ bite.”

He brushes a knuckle across Jim’s cheekbone, apparently taking no notice or no heed of the way the younger man’s jaw tightens under his touch.

“Oh, Vaako… he always did have an eye for the best…”

A snap of his fingers brings the guards back, their spears clutched at attention.

“Take him back where he belongs – and, boy – “

Jim swallows back a rush of nerves and helpless anger as the man leans in toward him, breathing his air.

“Tend your master well tonight – Gods know, he’s earned the… indulgence.”

 


End file.
